“Yes.”
“Sir, what country are we in?”
“No.”
Having been a waiter in a Mexican restaurant during my college years, I spoke just enough Spanish to confuse Spanish-speaking people. But it’s the only other language I knew any of at all. “En que pais estamos nosotros?”
The waiter looked at me, puzzled.
“Estamos en Brazil o Colombia? O Peru?”
“No.” He shrugged and left. Frustrated, I strode over to the two-top where the men sat. They acknowledged me only after I’d stood there for a beat and I had the feeling they’d been discussing me.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” They looked at each other, then back at me, with mild offense on their faces. “My name is Austin Fodder. Can you tell me, please, in what country is Playa Amazonia? En que pais estamos nosotros?”
“No.”
“No.”
One of them opened his hands in a sign of helplessness, his eyebrows rising. I noted that the men had thatch-topped umbrellas, which leaned in the corner behind them. They were smaller than the ones in my room, frayed with use. Back at my table, I wondered at the sudden rains that must fall here if the locals carried these rustic umbrellas even on such sunny days as this.
After a meal of grilled fish, brown rice, and toasted white bread, I walked into town. A few cars passed, all older though apparently well cared for, as you might find in Cuba. Playa Amazonia was set on a hillside behind a long sand beach. The town was small, but still larger than I’d imagined. Palm trees swayed over fragile-looking wooden buildings and the sidewalks rose and dipped with the sudden elevations and declines.
There were people out and about, mostly women but some men, too, all dressed in the older, more-formal fashions of poor but proud countries. Most were brown-skinned and dark-haired, but I saw fair blonds also. And all of them, young and old, moved briskly, as if in a hurry — heads up, alert, and often glancing toward the Playa Amazonia beach. I saw that nearly everyone carried a thatch-domed umbrella. The only people not carrying them appeared to be the few tourists, such as myself. I looked up at the cloudless blue sky and wondered again at the swift storms that must hit Playa Amazonia virtually without warning. I also noticed that the signs here in town — there were only a few — were all written in the same difficult language as the room-service menu back in my room. I stood outside a small market trying to make sense of the handwritten prices tacked over bins of produce: Xysccl — 1.355 and Lmj’ak — 2.116. Just outside the market’s front door was a tall basket of native umbrellas: Y’ap —14.457.
The central square lay between the town and the beach. It was little more than dirt with benches around the perimeter and a stand of skimpy palm trees in the middle. It seemed to need a church or temple or something meaningful to complete it. There were trash cans and a water fountain and a few people hurrying through, each carrying a y’ap, but no one pausing or even slowing down. Again, I saw mostly women. Also some older men and boys. But the young-to-middle-aged men I saw were very few. And they were conspicuously challenged in obvious ways — some filthy, others obese or malnourished, others deformed or seemingly insane. But even these less fortunate souls were in some kind of purposeful hurry. I wondered if this country (whatever it was!) might be grindingly poor. It was possible that Playa Amazonia was the coastal capital of some destitute and forlorn country, and that these fast-moving people were the national equivalent of Manhattanites.
Mr. Troels was a short, slender man who appeared in the central square about the same time I did. He transferred his y’ap and we shook hands. His accent was heavy but his English was good. “I hope that your flights and accommodations were excellent.”
“Flights bad, room good.”
He smiled. Mr. Troels had a scruffy, thin beard and dark-brown hair that needed a trim. His accent sounded Dutch. “Come.”
He led me down a street to a two-story wooden building and held open the door. The aroma engulfed me: a bakery. It was hot and powerfully fragrant and the racks of baked goods were picked over pretty well by then. Stout, flour-dusted women glanced at us. Mr. Troels waved me up the stairs and I followed him, the women watching me as I climbed.
His office was sparsely furnished and looked as if he was moving either in or out. On the desk between us sat a vintage landline telephone, black, with a tightly spiraled cord. There was also an older desktop computer, the kind with the bulbous monitor, white with ground-in dirt. Through the windows I could see the beach and the glittering silver ocean beyond.
“Mr. Troels, please keep me from feeling like a moron, but what country am I in?”
“Playa Amazonia, of course.”
“I thought it was a town, a destination.”
“Yes. Playa Amazonia is also the name of the capital. The nation itself has been a self-governing social democracy since 1894 — the smallest on the continent. Once a Dutch colony. The language is a native one.”
“Then we’re in South America?”
He smiled and lit a cigarette. “Well, Mr. Fodder, where else could we be?”
I’m sure I blushed badly (lifetime curse). The thought crossed my mind that if Ivan Slattery could see me right now he’d fire me on the spot. And that Ivy’s pride in me would vanish. I was their representative here. I took a deep breath and reminded myself of my dual degrees from the University of California, my “A” in Critical Theory 100, and my Long Beach-to-Ensenada cruise, on which I’d helped to break up a casino fight and later won close to $200 (in ship credits) at blackjack. “Well,” I forced a chuckle. “That’s exactly what I’d figured, Mr. Troels, but I couldn’t get one person to confirm it for me.”
“The language, yes — impossible.”
“Please impress me, Mr. Troels. Why should Authentic Adventures care about a country that takes twenty-odd hours to get to, has an unhelpful populace, and where — apparently — it rains so suddenly and heavily the locals carry wooden umbrellas even on the sunniest days?”
“Ah, good questions. For starters, we have the most beautiful beach on Earth. You will be more than impressed by it. The diving is without compare, the fishing superb — both deep sea and inshore. At exactly three o’clock each afternoon, the wind arises from the west and it blows very hard. As a result, this is the new kite-sailing capital of the world. Kite sailing, as you probably know, is the fastest-growing sport not only in America but in the world. Oh, Mr. Fodder, the hiking, gliding, birding, bungee-jumping, kayaking, and river running? Utterly superior to what your adventurers have ever experienced! I have devised a slogan for Playa Amazonia: The Best is Always Found Last. Do you like it? By the time you leave here in five days, you will have had a taste of all these things. Just a taste.” He put his fingers to his lips in a French way (judging from movies). “In addition, our little capital of Playa Amazonia is in reality a very friendly place, once you settle into the native rhythms.”
I tried to imagine what Ivan might say based on the half hour I had spent with him. “Facilities? I haven’t seen one dive shop, or kite-sailing school, or fishing charter, or even a restaurant or bar with customers in it. A total of one hotel.”
“What did you expect?”
“A destination!”
Mr. Troels sighed and slumped and finally spread his hands in the same helpless way that the man at the cafe had done an hour ago. “I was very clear with Mr. Slattery that we are developing.”
“Then I’m sure he told you that Authentic Adventures can’t sell developing. That would be like a restaurant trying to sell only recipes.”